


Interesting Lies

by linndechir



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Tevinter Imperium (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-23 11:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18151127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: After his return to Tevinter, Dorian has some scores to settle. Fortunately nothing provides as much opportunity to find out what he needs to know as a decadent party with lots of wine and even more scheming.





	Interesting Lies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spookykingdomstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/gifts).



Dorian would have been the first to deny that absence truly makes the heart grow fonder, but for all his misgivings about returning home (not quite the appropriate word for a place that now lacked all the things that had made it a home once, but he had a hard time thinking of a more fitting one), for all his grief about the reason he’d had to return now, he was still filled with a pleasant sense of familiarity as he surveyed the gardens of Magister Corolius’s villa.

The man had already been known for throwing some of the grandest parties in the Imperium before Dorian had ever gone south, grand not only because he owned an estate so large it filled even most Altus families with petty jealousy, not only because of the extravagant magical ornaments floating through the air or the exotic foods served on overflowing tables, or because of the almost painfully expensive wine offered by the most beautiful slaves money could buy. No, all of that was just the façade – it served a purpose too (mostly to show everyone how bloody rich their host was), but the real reason these parties were the talk of all Minrathous, of all the Imperium, was because everyone who truly mattered in the complex web that was Tevinter politics attended them. Magisters, First Enchanters, high-ranking Chantry officials, occasionally even the Archon himself. Laws had been conceived of in these halls and just as many struck down again, alliances had been forged and shattered, engagements brokered, and the real value of the evening lay not in the golden ornaments of the statues that lined every garden path or the jewels gleaming on every neck and finger, but in the information whispered behind polite smiles, the hands shaken in quiet understanding, the words that were shared with some and withheld from others.

Information was what Dorian was after, too – although he couldn’t have said that he didn’t enjoy the baser luxuries, too. The air smelt of rare flowers, the effect amplified by magic because even gardens as impressive as these couldn’t conjure up quite that overwhelming a scent. After months and months spent around Fereldans and their incorrigible love for furs and crude leather, the guests' clothes alone were a feast for the eyes (in most cases; in some others Dorian desperately wished for someone to exchange some mocking words with). The wine was a delight, though Dorian took care not to empty his glass too quickly, not when a slave always seemed to materialise out of nowhere to refill it immediately. Drunk tongues were loose and easily plied, and Dorian had no intention of being prey rather than hunter tonight. 

For now he let himself wander somewhat aimlessly from group to group – at this point of the night most conversations were nothing but polite formalities, condolences on his father’s passing ( _passing_ , they said, when everyone knew few magisters died of old age in their beds, when certainly everyone knew that Halward Pavus’s _passing_ had been hurried along by assassins whose master Dorian would find, sooner or later) in the same breath as congratulations on his elevation to the Magisterium, a witty quip here, a thinly veiled insult there. Sharks circling through the water. Once, what felt like a lifetime ago, Dorian had sworn never to return into this particular ocean, had told himself that he didn’t owe Tevinter or his father or his family name a damn thing. But now … 

Oh, he missed the south. The freedom of it, mostly, of being able to say and do as he pleased without anyone really caring either way, whereas every step in Minrathous was carefully watched and every misstep could mean death. Dorian realised now that he was being watched by many eyes he had never noticed as a younger man, but spending time around Sera (how she’d hate it here) had taught him to watch out for the things a man of his station usually wouldn’t deign to pay attention to. The old, withered elf standing on one of the balconies, overlooking the gardens as if they were his domain rather than his master’s – every estate had a slave like that, who knew everything that went on in it, and often had their master’s ear. The way those omnipresent slaves were quicker to refill some cups than others, the way they lingered at times near this group or that, never speaking, never lifting their eyes, never drawing any attention to them at all, but hearing so many words that were worth more than all the gold and jewels Corolius possessed. No matter the fortune the man spent on these evenings, Dorian had no doubt that he was still richer at the end of them than at their beginning.

Dorian didn’t miss the Blighted cold, or the unseasoned food, or having to constantly justify himself for still loving his homeland despite all its flaws. But with every passing day, he missed the company more. Trevelyan had always been so full of questions about parties just like this one – understandable, for a man born into nobility who’d then been ripped away from all the delightful pleasures of political intrigue and petty murder by his really quite impressive talent for magic. He probably would have made a better Magister than Dorian. Maybe one day he could visit and Dorian would take him along to a party like this one, if only for the amusement of watching half the Magisterium fall over their own feet to ingratiate themselves with the Inquisitor, while the other half pondered whether they wouldn't rather see him dead.

And Cullen … Cullen had been curious in his own way, too, though sceptical rather than bright-eyed and a little envious. How he would hate it here, more than Sera even, because unlike her he wouldn’t find any distraction or amusement in mischief and pranks. No, he was an animal entirely unsuited to the waters Dorian had found himself in once again – not quite of his own accord, dragged back by some semblance of honour and obligation, but also by hope, hope that maybe in the midst of all this scheming and manoeuvring, a sliver of good could be done. Even if that had meant turning his back on the south, on the handful of friends he’d made there, on Cullen’s smile when he beat him at chess, his rare laughter when Dorian managed to lift the gloom from his mind, on long nights spent in conversation and the way Cullen's hands had seemed like the only warm thing in that freezing castle.

Dorian felt a humiliating ache in his chest at the memory. It shouldn’t have mattered. Cullen was a dear friend, but whatever else they had shared, Dorian had always known it couldn’t last. Even if he’d kept true to his promise and never returned to Tevinter, Cullen would certainly have moved on eventually, just like every other man Dorian had ever become too foolishly attached to. And with everything Dorian had set out to accomplish in Tevinter … Cullen would only have been miserable here, and frustrated by what little success Dorian was likely to have at reforming the Imperium, and as long as whoever had conspired to murder his father was still breathing, Dorian was certainly not even considering inviting anyone else he cared for into his home. Not that Cullen would have wanted to come with him, not to a place that must have seemed like his own personal nightmare. Dorian tried not to dwell too much on the pained look in Cullen's eyes when he'd left. 

“Dorian! Don’t you look splendid tonight,” a voice behind him interrupted his thoughts, and even a long absence from home hadn’t ruined years of training never to appear startled by anything. Dorian didn’t flinch, only turned with all the gravitas his new station required, smiled, and bowed lightly. Maevaris was possibly the first person tonight he was actually glad to see. 

“I wouldn’t want you embarrassed to be seen with me,” Dorian replied. He fussed a little with the sleeve of his tunic – white and gold, as all his clothes were tonight. Tevinter fashion still favoured dark, rich colours, but Dorian had always liked to stand out. That and white suited him spectacularly.

They exchanged some pleasantries on their way to a quieter corner, not that either of them was foolish enough to assume any place in this estate was entirely safe from prying ears – whether employed by their host or by anyone else. 

“Do you really think you will manage to find out more tonight about what happened to your father?” she asked once they were alone. They both had their suspicions – no Magister of Halward’s standing was short of enemies – but certainty was needed. Misguided revenge was the only thing that would look weaker than no revenge at all. 

“Why not? Since everyone is here, someone must know something. And if not, you did mention there were a few people you’d like to introduce me to.” Like-minded people, he didn’t need to add – people who thought the Imperium could once again be more than petty squabbles and pointless infighting, a Magisterium paralysed by century-old feuds, Circles that were more concerned with keeping their research from their rivals than with actually researching. A storm was coming, though not even the Inquisitor was quite sure yet what exactly Solas was planning, but Dorian would not see his homeland swept away by it through its own stubborn incompetence. He could play this game as well as any of them, but hopefully he wasn't the only one who thought it should be played for more than the game itself. 

“I certainly hope I will get the opportunity.” Maevaris allowed herself a small grin. “You’ve missed Corolius's last few parties. Every single one of them had an assassination – I’m starting to think that he arranges them himself to make sure the guests don’t get too comfortable.”

Dorian chuckled. “Maybe someone will try to assassinate me – now wouldn’t that be exciting? And it would make it so much easier to find out who is after my family.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to try much harder for anyone to bother assassinating us. Most of the Magisterium doesn't even dread any kind of reform simply because they're still laughing about the absurdity of it.”

“In that case, we’d better get to it, no?” Dorian smiled, but there was an old sharpness to it now. He’d been away for a long time, but some things were as natural as breathing. Wouldn't Halward be proud of him now, in this if not in much else. “Making an example of whoever killed my father will be a good start to teach them to stop laughing.”

He was in good company for that, too, considering how elegantly and ruthlessly Maevaris had dealt with her own father’s murderers. Dorian didn’t need to mention that – it would only put salt in old wounds – but they both knew he appreciated her expertise in matters of well-placed vengeance. But vengeance required knowledge first.

Dorian fished an intricately ornamented canapé from a passing tray, popped it into his mouth and took a moment to relish the flavours. He hadn’t tasted anything this exquisite since the Winter Palace. It brought back memories, of the end of the night when he’d saved Cullen from a drove of handsy Orlesians and abducted him, a tray of canapés much like this one, and a bottle of wine to a small, empty pavilion. Cullen had insisted they couldn't simply disappear like that, even as most guests were slowly heading home, but he'd still come along, flushed and smiling and so very relieved. Dorian sighed, knowing full well that he wouldn’t achieve half as much here as Trevelyan had that night, and that this evening wouldn’t end half as pleasantly. He finished his wine and waved away the slave who quickly sought to hand him another one. He would have enough time to wallow in memories later. And maybe, if the evening would prove exciting enough, he’d reply to Cullen’s latest letter in the morning and tell him all about it.

For now he forced all that from his mind and turned back to Maevaris. 

“Shall we go and see who tells us the most interesting lies?”


End file.
